


Loss Ficlet: Surname

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (Ficlets) [25]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15960863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: To change a last name or not change a last name: the modern engaged woman's dilemma.





	Loss Ficlet: Surname

**Author's Note:**

> I started to write the Loss honeymoon and inadvertently created a whole backstory about how they decided to go where they went. The Honeymoon itself is mostly written, but until then –– here’s a little ficlet that felt out of place with the romance of those days. I would say that this is not fluff, but it feels important to me in their story. It is before the at-home handfasting and after J&C move in to the Jamie Claire Dream House With Accessory Shed ™.

##  **Loss Ficlet (Modern AU)  
** **Surname  
** **May 2018**

Jamie and I booked our honeymoon when we were half-drunk on red wine and coming off one of the worst arguments of our relationship.  

A few weekends before our wedding, we had been working in tandem in the shed we had fashioned into half office and half gardening center. Dragging me onto his lap, his breath whisky warm on my neck, he said, “An island. I want to take a bikini off of ye.”

I hazarded a glance at the screen of his laptop, brows furrowed and concerned about what I would see there. “Excuse me?”

“A honeymoon. On an island.”

“Oh,” I breathed, melting back into him as his fingers worked from jeans-clad hip up to rest under my sweater at my waist.

“Which island are you thinking?” My head tilted, granting his lips a much improved access point to my throat. I wanted nothing more than to wander back to each other through touch and the planning of a too-expensive holiday to commemorate our nuptials.

“Yer choice, lass.” His thumb lazily flicked open the button on my jeans as his hands turned their attention to my thighs.

I took a moment to steady my breath. My response nonetheless came out as a slurred mumble: “Give me choices.”

“Hmmm.” His hands paused and then squeezed, drawing from me a contented sigh as my body molded to his for the first time in days.  “Majorca. Madeira. Mykonos.”

“Did you plan a list of ‘m’ locales to suggest?”

“Och, aye.”

I could _tell_ he was fibbing and making this up as he went along. I didn’t care. _Banter_ was normal.  It was closer to our well-honed equilibrium.

“It seemed appropriate –– ‘m’ is for ‘married,’ ye ken.”

“Oh, I _ken_ alright.” He licked the side of my neck then before blowing a cool, thin stream of air along it.

A peel of laughter tore through me as I started to unbutton my cardigan from the bottom up. Without thinking, I suggested, “Why not places beginning with the letter ‘F’ for ‘Fraser’?”

His roving hands stilled, fingers splayed like a starfish across my abdomen. “Ye’ve decided then?”

“I need some ‘F’ _options_ , Jamie.” I reached for his laptop and turned the screen, scrolling a little through the webpage he had open. “I’m leaning towards some anonymous Greek island, just so I won’t freeze. You seem to have put a fair bit of thought into a fantasy where you strip a bikini off of me.”

His lips stopped moving, and for a long moment he was silent. I squirmed a little, rubbing at my neck where his tongue had touched me. The absence of his touch was unnerving, like a piece of me had gone missing.  

“ _No_. Not decided on the _honeymoon._ ” His words were almost a whisper. “The _name_ , Sassenach.”

Despite the loss of friction of his moving hips and meandering hands, my heartrate accelerated. “ _Oh_.”

 _The last name_.

Our week of tiptoeing around each other had started with a piece of paper that made Jamie’s traditional side chafe against my independent streak.

 _Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp_ : the name was handwritten on a renewal form to send into the medical licensing authority. It was not due until after the wedding, but I was trying to be responsible and not let it fall through the cracks of wedding chaos.  Arms crossed over his chest and the line of his jaw drawing itself taut, Jamie had gritted his teeth and _glared_ at me.

“Ye’re no’ goin’ to change yer name, then?”

“What?” I asked, truly confused. Days earlier, in an offhand conversation, we had discussed whether I would change my last name. At the time, his feelings had not seemed particularly strong. Judging by the look on his face at that moment, I had profoundly misjudged his thinking about the whole matter.

Packing up my work bag with my lunch, a variety of papers strewn across the kitchen table, and a bottle of ibuprofen, I had looked up at him. “You can’t possibly make _this_ ––”

waving the paper, I felt my facial expression fall into a scowl ––

“––into a _thing_.”

“I _can_ ,” he responded. With a facial expression that I expected mirrored my own, he took the paper and waved it back. “And I _will_.”

“C’mon, Jamie,” I sighed, not wanting a fight before work but also not wanting to walk away from _this_. ( _Whatever it was_.) “Professionally, I’ve made a name for myself and I don’t want to have to retread all of that ground to reestablish myself as Claire _Fraser_. Claire _Beauchamp_ has a reputation.”

Tossing his banana peel at the open compost bin and missing, he muttered something under his breath in that way that I just _knew_ he did not intend me to hear. ( _“A reputation as a **single** doctor.”_ )

“Excuse me?” It came out as a snarl as I bent over to pick up his banana peel. “I don’t seem to recall that you spent six years in medical school before killing yourself in a residency for another ridiculous bit of your life.”

The look on his face was something I had rarely seen before –– a mix of annoyance and disappointment. “Are ye trying to make a _point_ wi’ that… _paper_? By no’ takin’ my name?”

My response had been tart: “I’m not marrying you for your last name. I’m marrying you to make a spiritual and legal commitment in front––”

“––oh for _Christ’s sake_ , that’s _mighty_ romantic, Claire––”

“–– _a spiritual and legal commitment_ in front of our friends and your family.”

He dropped the paper.

“I am _not_ marrying you to create a single medieval entity known as ‘husband.’”

His eyes could have pierced through me as the paper floated in a meandering path down to the kitchen counter, missed, and landed on the floor.

Resigned and quiet, he screwed the lid onto his thermos of coffee. “ _My_ family, Claire? Ye ken that they’re _yer_ family, _too_. There’s history behind that name –– people died to protect it, the way of life it represents.”

I adopted his intonation –– a mumble that he was not supposed to hear. “I’m not Scottish.”

From his reaction, voice rising in pitch and hands gripping the kitchen counter, it was clear he _had_ heard. “And ye consider yerself _French_ then?”

“No!” The word was a short, high-pitched and defensive squeal that disgusted me.

“Oh, come off it. Ye’re no’ foolin’ me. Ye havena even retained the _pronunciation_ of it. Not to mention… yer argument seems to be shifting from professional identity to some sort of… I dinna ken… _ancestry_ … _thing_. I didna ken yer _French heritage_ was so important to ye.”

I felt my cheeks reddening at his tone –– it had gone almost mocking and it made me sick. The muscles in my jaw ached as the taste on my tongue went sour.  Eyes burning ( _from tears or anger, I couldn’t tell_ ), I ground the toe of my tennis shoe into the floor. “I’m literally _nothing_ , Jamie. I have _nothing_ of my father or my mother other than some money I have never touched and _this name_ , which you appear intent on taking from me––”

His face fell –– slowly at first, but then back to passivity as he said, “Claire…”

Holding up a hand, I took his thermos and tipped it towards him in an incomplete toast.

“So… _no_. I don’t consider myself _French_. My name is one of the first things I learned how to spell. I have roughly ten memories of my mother, and one of them is her fingers… wrapped around mine… teaching me the difference between a ‘b’ and a ‘p.’ It’s the name on my diploma, which _by the way_ I fought and paid for by _myself_. I’ve typed that name a thousand times and signed it five thousand times more. I’ve introduced myself thousands of times. It’s the name that is embroidered into the jacket that Uncle Lamb bought for me the summer I went to Egypt with him.”

I stopped to take a breath, a sudden nostalgia aching beneath my breastbone to break free with the small litany of memories just below the surface.

I was going to cry. _Fuck_.

Taking his name felt like a firm step in the direction of forgetting my parents. The realization washed over me, salty in my throat and rising, rising, rising.

“It’s my _family’s_ name. I don’t have a brother, sister, or a host of nieces and nephews. I have a family whose history dies when I am put into the ground.”

 _Beauchamp_.

Dead and with a different name, I would not even have the timeless bond of a name on a tombstone.

Jamie apparently struggled for words (“ _I… I’m…_ ”) as I set about weaving my hair into a lazy braid at the nape of my neck. I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore and cast my eyes down.  I couldn’t stand the hurt that I was causing him for another moment, even though what was mounting in me was rapidly curling itself into an acute, searing pain.

“I will _not_ be made to feel like I’m a bad person for not releasing my name into the void and taking yours.” Words emptied from me, expanding as the volume I had inside of me to contain them contracted. An entire spring of tears was coiled in my throat and chest. “This is _my choice_ , and I love you, but I will _not_ have you take it from me. The choice _or_ the name.”

“ _Sorcha_ …”

Beyond finished with the conversation, I held up a hand to stop him. I knew it was childish to give a monologue about the whole thing and not to allow him to respond. But I needed to go before I started to cry in front of him. “I will see you when I get home.”

As I walked by he lifted a hand and cupped my shoulder silently. I paused, closing my eyes as the warmth of his palm seeped into my bones, before shrugging his touch off and leaving.

That evening, our home was silent as I hung my jacket in the front hall closet. Jamie was not there. I turned on every light I could, attempting to flood the shadows until they had no choice but to disappear.

Free from his kennel, Buffalo Bill roved each corner of the lower level on a loop. After each lap he looked up at me through strawberry blonde lashes, his melted chocolate eyes wistful and confused.  Raking back the hair on his ridged head, I whispered, “You even look like him. All abashed –– big, dopey eyes and red.”

With a great snort, the dog pulled away and began to roam again. He was searching the house for Jamie.

Eventually, I texted him a simple: _‘will you be home?’_

My message was met by three little dots –– an indication that he was responding. Biting down on my lip, I waited.  The dots disappeared.  Then _nothing_.  Three minutes later, I scrambled through the blankets on my lap for my phone as it vibrated.

His response: ‘ _Yes_.’

More dots appeared as he ostensibly typed a message to me from _wherever_ he was. And then _nothing_ again.

I spun my engagement ring around and around my ring finger, watching the three dots appear and then disappear on my screen repeatedly. Curling deeper under my blankets, my eyes focused on the spot Jamie usually occupied on the couch. There was a slight downward curve there.

After a few minutes, when he had apparently decided not to send something else, I sent him another message: ‘ _The dog and I miss you._ ’

Again, the dots appeared before the message was delivered: ‘ _At the gym_. _Needed to sweat._ ’

“You bloody, blockheaded, stubborn man,” I muttered to no one in particular.  Buffalo Bill, who had given up his search mission, rose with a groan from his slumber in front of the fireplace.  I could _feel_ my mind wiping clean the apology I had drafted throughout the day. ( _I overreacted. I am sorry. I do not want to hurt you by not taking your name. Let’s compromise on something in between. A middle name or a hyphenate._ )

It took a moment, but eventually my phone vibrated again: ‘ _I miss you, too, and I am *sick* about what happened this morning, making you upset, being a jerk, etc._ ’

Sighing, I held the phone to my chest and let my eyes drift shut as the apology seeped back into my veins. ‘ _Same._ ’

A beat passed without a message and then: ‘ _Home in 15._ ’

I simply responded: ‘ _Okay_.’

Ten minutes later, Jamie walked in the door. Damp curls curled around his earlobes and I absently thought he could use a very conservative trim. “Fastest post-workout shower in history?”

“Och, aye,” he snorted, smirking. His teeth flashed with the beginning of a smile and then his face fell, as if he remembered we were supposed to be upset with one another.

“Should we have an adult conversation?” I asked.

Jamie nodded, settling in at the end of the couch –– far away from his usual spot, where he sat with my bottom firmly nestled against his thigh and my legs draped over his lap.

“Everything I said this morning holds true, though my delivery could have been better.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes fixing on his hands, which were clasped between his knees.  “And I shouldna have… _exploded––_ ”

“Jamie, you didn’t _explode_. You’ve _never_ exploded at me.”

He raised his leg to the couch, slipping it under his body and moving almost imperceptibly nearer. “I shoudna have reacted the way I did. It’s just… want our bairns to have my name, my father’s name, and his father’s name before him. Jenny’s bairns are _Murrays_. My mam’s side –– Colum and Dougal’s bairns –– are MacKenzies. I… our name… I mean, _Fraser_ …”

His voice trailed off. This time he moved towards me a bit more purposefully and guided my legs up and onto his lap.

“And I wouldn’t take that away from you. We can name whatever children we have ‘Fraser.’ I need something from _before_ for _myself_.”

“I spent the better part of the morning Googling.”

“Oh _god_.”

He laughed, a snuffle-meets-snort kind of noise, and ran a hand from my knee to my thigh. “I dinna expect ye to do anything ye dinna feel comfortable doing. Nor do I _want_ ye to do anything ye dinna want to do. But… maybe there’s a middle ground?”

“Hyphenate?” I supplied, scooting myself just a bit closer to him.

“Aye. Or middle name. A whole mouthful –– Claire Elizabeth Sassenach Beauchamp Fraser.”

I reached out and attempted to pinch his arm, but was unable to get enough flesh between my fingers to make it count. He just chuckled a little, reaching out to tuck a curl behind my ear. ****

“We’ve got to get ye enough syllables to compete with _James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser_.” I laughed as I started to cry the tears I had held back since that morning. “As long as ye’re married to me… as long as ye stand there, say the vows, let me kiss ye… I can be one family with ye… regardless of yer surname.”

At that, I crawled into his lap, situating my face along the curve of his neck. “I love you, James Fraser.” His sigh was warm against me as he returned the endearment, his voice catching a little on ‘ _Beauchamp_.’

 _I still hadn’t told him what I was going to do_.

I waded out of the memory like I was emerging from a haze –– back in his lap, but in the shed and staring at his computer screen, the history of that day rang in my ears. It ached down to the marrow of my bones.  My entire world had stopped for a moment.

 _A honeymoon_.

“Mykonos,” I said firmly, pulling his laptop closer to the edge of the desk, moving forward on his lap until my tiptoes could reach the floor. He shifted a little bit beneath me, his hands falling from my hips. I could feel the lines of him tense beneath me. “Let’s book tickets for James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp-Fraser.”

My only regret was that I could only see his reflection in the laptop screen as I said it –– a dopey smile passing over his lips as he kissed me on the ear.


End file.
